


kuro

by gnomeo



Series: a series of loss [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Coping Mechanisms, Hinata Shouyou is a Good Person, Kenma is trying his best, KuroKen - Freeform, Kuroo is dead, black cats are good for metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28004133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeo/pseuds/gnomeo
Summary: “My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 19 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died two months ago. I will be okay.”
Relationships: Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Series: a series of loss [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051097
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	kuro

**Author's Note:**

> ummm. . . i'm sorry
> 
> cw: grief, mentions of death, mental?? self harm?? kind of, depression symptoms, in general just a sensitive topic

Kenma hates mornings.

Specifically, Kenma hates the painful yet inevitable falling back to earth once those few blissful moments of sleep-induced amnesia fade away. He hates the responsibility to pull away from the blankets, warm and inviting, in favor of living through another day. He hates the obligation to respond to texts all asking the same thing.

But most of all, he hates the silence left behind, the silence that is somehow so loud it threatens to split his head open.

“My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 19 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died one month ago. I will be okay.”

No. That was wrong. Kuroo had died two months ago, not one.

“My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 19 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died two months ago. I will be okay.”

His reflection stares back at him. He hates it. The bathroom walls blur. He blinks. They stand still again, and his cheeks are wet.

_“You know it’s not your fault right?_

_I mean. . . it can’t be.”_

Kenma stares at the “Game Over” graphic flashing across his screen for the umpteenth time. He doesn’t understand. What do those characters spell again?

_“There was no way you could have stopped or prevented it.”_

Maybe.

That doesn’t stop his stomach from feeling permanently empty, like a hole had been shot right through him.

That doesn’t stop his knees from turning to jelly at any given moment, for any given reason.

_“Don’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”_

Easier said than done.

Kuroo had loved Kenma. He never confessed, but it was clear. In all of his gestures, in all his words, was the clear message:

_I love you._

At first, Kenma had purposefully avoided the topic. Nothing remotely romance-related was spoken of for months. But it hadn’t stopped Kuroo. His little reminders to “don’t play for too long,” and “make sure to eat tonight.” The way he brushed a hand against Kenma’s shoulders at least three times a day, perhaps without even noticing. His everlasting consideration for Kenma’s wants and needs, no matter how taxing they were for him.

And it had eaten away at Kenma’s heart.

Because Kenma never loved him back.

_“Closure is really the best way to heal,_

_But I know closure might not be so easy in this. . . situation.”_

Kenma had laughed at that.

His therapist knew she was asking the almost-impossible, and yet she did anyways. And Kenma had laughed at it. Laughed at _her._ Laughed at that stupid, soft tone she always used. Laughed at the pause before “situation.” How could she say that?

“Get closure!! With a dead person!!”

Ha! So easy! _I’ll be sure to do that, ma’am!_ He had left early that day. He had no intention of going back. He hated that office.

“My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 19 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died three months ago. I will be okay.”

Something metallic filled his mouth. _Oh._ He had bit open his lip.

“I will be okay.”

Kenma almost choked on the words as they escaped his throat. Would he? Don’t you need closure to be okay? He couldn’t finish the recitations that day.

He hated the blood on his lip. It was too red. Too real.

Were Kuroo’s friends mad at Kenma?

Surely, if they knew how Kenma had hurt Kuroo, they would be. How he had stomped on Kuroo’s heart and left it in the dust. How he had left him completely alone.

_I should have loved him back._

Kenma really does hate mornings. A lot of other things, too.

He doesn’t know when he started noticing it. But one day, his hatred became so obvious that he was afraid other people might notice it following him around, like a murky and malevolent shadow.

Responsibilities. Reality. His therapist. Pity. The redness of blood. Silence.

And recently, he hates himself the most.

And sometimes, just for a rare, fleeting moment, he finds himself hating Kuroo, too.

_Why did you love me?!_

He visits Kuroo’s grave.

It’s not particularly remarkable, just a gray slab engraved with a name and date. He almost didn’t find it, actually.

He glares up at the sky, blue and cloudless, perfect weather for a happy day _. Not very fitting_ , he thinks. Would the spotless blue ever be fitting?

“Hi, Kuro,” he mumbles. His eyes sting again. “I was told to find closure, but this is the closest I could get.”

For a split second, Kenma wonders why Kuroo doesn’t respond. It was never like him to be quiet. . .

Ah, right. 

He’s dead. 

_My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 19 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died four months ago. I will be okay._

_I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be oka_ —

A cat meows. It’s black.

Kenma stares at it, and it stares right back. He smiles a bit, standing up, and the cat follows him home.

Taking care of a cat is harder than Kenma thought.

It begs for attention, clawing and hissing and meowing until he gives in. 

It rips apart the couch in Kenma’s living room, the couch that Kuroo hated so much. Kenma lets it, watching impassively.

He doesn’t name it. Sometimes he slips, sometimes he calls it Kuro by accident, but usually it’s just “cat.” Or sometimes a mixture of insults, depending on Kenma’s mood.

He likes it, though.

Despite it’s bad habit of sleeping on Kenma’s face, and it’s painfully sharp claws, and constant shedding, he likes it.

And it’s a good distraction.

He cries himself to sleep a lot.

Four months becomes five, and then six. The recitations don’t get any easier. Taking care of the cat does.

Kenma goes back to the therapist.

He cries there, too.

She lets him.

One night, Kenma watches as the cat gets itself stuck in the kitchen sink. It’s nails screech horribly against the metal.

He picks it up, trying to calm it’s incessant trembling.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

The cat watches him through narrow, glimmering eyes. They’re the same hazel as an old friends, watching carefully, with kindness. He wonders vaguely if this cat knows something that he doesn’t.

They fall asleep on the couch that night, and somehow he feels less alone.

Kenma turns 20. Six months becomes seven. His hair is black again.

He visits Kuroo’s grave again, under the same spotless blue sky. He doesn’t hate it as much, not anymore. He promises himself he won’t cry.

He cries.

Kuroo, of course, doesn’t respond. Kenma wants more than anything to hear his voice again, even if it’s just a whisper. Even if it’s just one word.

_Please._

There are flowers next to the graves around Kuroo’s. Kenma feels a stab of guilt. He didn’t bring any flowers.

_Why did you love me? I didn’t even bring you flowers._

“You’re such an asshole, Kuro.”

He chokes out a sob.

“I miss you.”

“My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 20 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died seven months ago. I will be okay.”

He recites it dutifully in the mirror every morning. By now, he’s gotten used to the wavering walls and wet cheeks after he speaks, but this morning, neither happens.

And for some inexplicable reason, that makes him even sadder than when he did cry.

 _I’m getting used to it._ And then,

_I don’t want to get used to it. (I don’t deserve to get used to it.)_

His lip quivers, but he does not cry.

Kenma takes care of the cat. Spoils it, really. It grows fat off of treats. His house smells like catnip.

It really is a good distraction.

He throws himself into that distraction, vowing that this black cat of his will live the best, longest life a cat will ever live.

(Unlike Kuroo.)

( _Cats should not outlive humans_ , he thinks. Sometimes, he finds himself hating his cat, just a little bit.)

Hinata texts him out of the blue one night. It’s the first time they’ve talked in months.

 _I think you would love Brazil_ , the text reads. Kenma thinks about it. The warm air, the sand, Hinata. No more silence.

Oh, how he longs for something to break the silence.

 _I think I would, too,_ he replies.

Kenma doesn’t know when he started to get better. Maybe it was when he visited Kuroo’s grave for the first time after the funeral. Maybe it was when the cat started to make its way to his bed at night. Maybe it was when he stopped crying as often. Maybe it never really got any better, and he’s just in some dream-like reality to suppress his grief. 

He starts to notice things that he doesn’t want to notice.

The morning amnesia starts to go away, like Kuroo’s death has finally seeped into his mind, and is there to stay. He wants it back.

His cat starts leaving the house, going who-knows-where, and only coming back for food and sleep. He misses it. 

( _Does everything leave?_ )

His therapist starts talking about having less meetings. He thought he wouldn’t mind it, but he does. He does.

All of it reminds him, every second of every day, that he’s getting used to it.

And the guilt stabs into his heart even deeper than before. 

_I can’t forget. I can’t._

_How can I be happy when Kuroo is dead?_

It’s one of those days. Where Kenma can’t bring himself to get up. He managed to drag himself halfway across his room, and promptly laid back down on the floor, not able and not wanting to move.

The cat curls up on his chest, weighing heavily on his lungs, making it a bit harder to breathe. He mildly wishes the cat was heavier.

Oranges and reds fill the room, the sun shining on his curtains. It’s a beautiful color, really, but it reminds him of Nekoma, and he hates it.

He’s crying again.

“Fuck.”

The cat purrs so loud it vibrates, and he smiles weakly down at it. 

“I never gave you a name, huh.”

More purring.

“I guess you don’t need one.” He pats it’s head lightly, tears still falling down his cheeks. “Unless you want to be Kuro. But that’s up to you.”

There’s something strangely comforting about this cat. It doesn’t cuddle with him often— it isn't even home most of the time— only in the evenings or when it’s hungry, but it’s _there_ , and that’s all Kenma really needs.

All he really wants.

“G’night, then, Kuro.”

He falls asleep like that, splayed on the floor with a cat on his chest. The tears dry up.

Kenma realizes that he’s not forgetting.

He sees Kuroo everywhere: on the bench outside the convenience store, in the field where they used to play volleyball, on the train in the early morning light, and in the oranges and reds of evening.

He heals, bit by bit. 

The cat helps.

He tells his therapist about it. She says the cat is his way of apologizing to Kuroo, something he doesn’t necessarily need to do, but does anyway. She says it’s a healthy way to cope. He cries again when she says so, but the tears are relieving this time.

Hinata starts to send him more pictures of Brazil, sometimes too many. A couple of times, he calls, and it’s loud, and he goes on for hours. Kenma never complains. It fills up the silence.

_Maybe, just maybe, this is okay._

_Maybe I’m allowed to feel better._

He is, and he does.

There are times when he feels shitty, and miserable, and the grief hits him like a freight train, and he cries until his lungs hurt and his eyes sting, but other times, he’s happy.

It’s bittersweet and nostalgic— remembering Kuroo— when before, it was painful.

It never really goes away. He still hates the silence, and the redness of blood, and the pity, and the reality of _being without_. But, he thinks Kuroo would want him to be happy. He thinks that Kuroo would want him to move on.

“My name is Kozume Kenma. I am 20 years old. Kuroo Tetsurou died eleven months ago.”

His vision doesn’t waver. His cheeks stay dry. He smiles.

“I am okay.”

He thinks Kuroo would be proud.

**Author's Note:**

> time for authors notes ♥
> 
> 1) Okay I really don't know how this happened. It just did. I rambled about this idea to my friend for like 4 months? before I even started writing it. And I finally decided to actually finish it. Fun fact: I wrote the first half in like August and just now finished it. Procrastinating is really fun!!
> 
> 2) It's up to the reader to decide if the cat is really Kuroo reincarnated or just another cat! Personally, I don't see the cat as a reincarnation, but I wrote it in a way that it could be either. Also, to clarify it even more: Kenma felt guilty for not loving Kuroo back before Kuroo died, so he took the cat in as a way to apologize to "Kuroo."
> 
> 3) Kenma was NOT dealing with grief in a healthy way. Don't romanticize this. He basically believed that he didn't deserve to be happy because it was 'his fault' for Kuroo's death, even though he had no role in it whatsoever. In a way, it was kind of mental self harm? That's why having the cat really helped, because he could move on after getting closure. 
> 
> 4) Hinata is in this story because Kenma needed someone to break the silence. Cats aren't very loud, but Hinata sure as hell is. Cue my little kenhina brain going brrr ♥
> 
> 5) The scene where the cat is laying on his chest is actually inspired by a fanart I saw: https://i.pinimg.com/236x/26/7c/49/267c49eea5a338b4e6b1bfd2524c88d0.jpg  
> I can't find the artist even though I did a reverse image search, so feel free to tell me in the comments if you know who made it!!
> 
> 6) Being "okay" doesn't mean that he's over it! "Okay" is an ambiguous word, meaning both good and bad, or neither. So by saying that he is "okay," he doesn't mean that everything is fine and that he doesn't care about Kuroo anymore, but that he's healed and accepted Kuroo's death. I think this fic is really just my self-projected love of the word okay . . . .yeah it probably is.
> 
> well, that's it. i don't even ship them, and yet here i am writing the two stories i am most proud of about them. . . .anyways
> 
> thank u sm for reading!! much love ♥  
> gnomeo  
> (@gnomegiirl on twt)


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